


Cast On

by scribefindegil



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, The Future, The Power Of Mabel, being supportive and great, high school Mabel, knitting metaphors, ongoing unicorn issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In high school, Mabel works in a yarn shop. One of her coworkers needs advice about unicorns and choices and growing up. Fortunately, Mabel has tea and a huge stockpile of knitting metaphors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cast On

**Author's Note:**

> They're like 16; the owner of the Yarn Bomb is probably a witch; and Mabel's yarn stash is infinite because Fidds and the Grunks give her money for it: Fidds so she can knit things for the poor and needy, the Grunks so she can knit things for their monster friends.
> 
> None of this is actually necessary information but I feel like it adds something.

The Yarn Bomb wasn’t usually busy on Tuesday evenings. All the kids had homework, or if they were avoiding homework could find something more interesting to do than hang out in a fiber arts store. The Old Biddies Knitting Group only met on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and Mrs. Drummond and Mrs. Igorashi were working on large-form sculptures these days so they weren’t in every night like they used to be. They’d just published the workshop schedule for the next month, so there weren’t any classes.

It would be fine, Molly told herself. It would be fine and empty and she wouldn’t have to spend the whole time with her Chipper Sales Girl Face on and maybe she could read or do homework or . . . wallow in existential misery . . .

Yeah. Probably that last one.

She took a moment to glare at the inspirational quote printed in the sidewalk before she turned the corner, scuffing her shoes across the pavement. The Yarn Bomb’s sign glowed faintly in the twilight. She still wasn’t sure if the light on the end of the “fuse” on the sign was real fire; it sure looked like it, but the rest of the sign was clearly wood. Not to mention the building. Well, she’d been working there for three months and it hadn’t burned down yet, so it was probably fine.

Someone had updated the sculpture outside, too. There were new hats and gloves hanging off the huge metalwork orb, and colorful scarves wrapped around it. The inside was almost entirely filled with what turned out to be, on further inspection, dozens of neatly folded sweaters.

They always went through a lot of woolens in early October when the nights started getting properly cold, and the sculpture had been nearly empty when Molly worked her Saturday shift. She knew immediately who was responsible for restocking it. Only one person could knit that quickly and had such a seemingly infinite yarn stash.

When Molly entered the store, it was indeed Mabel Pines behind the counter. She was tough to recognize at first, buried as she was under a massive pile of knitting, but the bright purple streak in her hair gave her away.

“Weren’t you the one who said we shouldn’t be making scarves for lampposts when we could make them for people?” Molly asked.

“This isn’t for a lamppost,” Mabel protested from the depths of her wooly cave. “It’s for a friend!”

Molly looked at the current state of the project and pursed her lips. “Is your friend dressing up as Inspector Spacetime? Or do they have a neck that’s forty feet long?”

“Both, actually!” said Mabel, struggling to disentangle herself. “You wouldn’t think that sea serpents would be so into classic Sci-Fi, but my Grunkle Ford got her hooked one time when they were waiting out a storm in her cave. She’s so exited to cosplay, but I have to help her out with the construction since she doesn’t have any arms. I’m still trying to figure out how she’s gonna keep things on, since, well, she doesn’t have any arms. Also she lives in the ocean.”

Molly pulled open the gate to the employee area with perhaps rather more force than was necessary. “You know, you could just admit it if you felt like decorating a tree or something. You don’t have to keep making things up all the time.”

And now Mabel would act all affronted and launch into more tall tales about her magical seafaring uncles and their magical sea monster friends instead of just admitting that she liked making up stories. It was fun sometimes, but not today. Molly didn’t have the stomach for it.

“Hey . . . you okay, Mollycoddles? You seem kind of snippy.”

“I’m fine!” Molly snapped. She kicked at the tail end of Mabel’s project, clearing the space in front of the employee bag cubbies behind the counter, and swung her backpack around to stuff it into place.

_Crash_.

Both girls froze, staring at the shards of the ceramic yarn bowl that was now lying in fragments on the floor. Molly’s cheeks burned. She bit her tongue. She wasn’t going to cry she wasn’t going to cry she wasn’t—

“Look,” said Mabel. “Why don’t you sit down. I’ll get the broom. And don’t worry about this—I’ll talk to Jess and she’ll totally understand, and also I’m in ceramics this semester so I can make her a new one. It’s okay.”

If she tried to say anything Molly really was going to cry. She sat down wordlessly and willed her eyes to stay dry. Mabel tucked a loop of her giant sea monster scarf around Molly’s shoulders and swept the fragments of the bowl into the trash.

“Do you want some tea?” she asked.

Molly nodded miserably.

“We’ve got peppermint, rosehip, that cinnaminninny kind, and . . . something my Grunkles sent that’s either incense used for summoning knowledge djinns or really good Earl Gray. They’re . . . not very good at labels and apparently bergamot is an important summoning aroma. Who knew, right? But don’t worry, I warded the store a couple months ago, so even if it is the incense nothing will manifest! Probably.”

“Um. Peppermint, please.” said Molly.

Mabel mimed finger-guns and disappeared back into the break room. Molly sat behind the counter and sniffed. There was a rustling, and a box of tissues appeared by her elbows. She grabbed one without looking and swiped at her eyes. Stupid. Couldn’t keep herself from falling apart for four stupid hours. Some customer would come in and she wouldn’t be able to help them because she was a pathetic mess and they’d tell Laura—or Mabel would tell Laura and then she’d have the whole store being mad at her, or, worse, pitying her.

She sunk her head down on the counter and hid behind her arms.

“Hey!” Mabel called from the break room. “We’ve got some needle-felt samples that need finishing if you feel like stab therapy!”

Molly reached under the counter for the foam pads and bags of roving that lived there. She had a choice between a flatwork ocean scene and an extremely spherical pink pig. After a moment of hesitation, she slid the flatwork scene back into its cubby. The pig was less finished and didn’t need as many details. It wasn’t the kind of work you needed a lot of brains for. Just as well.

She pulled one of the barbed needles out of its cork holder and began to work. _Stabstabstabstabstab_. Mabel was right. This did help.

As if the thought had summoned her, Mabel reappeared, carrying not one but two mugs. She plopped the one with a design of art deco cats floating in space on the counter before blowing gently on her own mug. It was surprisingly plain for Mabel—just a single large question mark on a dark background.

“You mind if I hang out here?” she asked.

“Your shift’s over.”

“Yeah.” Mabel took a sip of her own tea—rosehip, from the smell. “And? I mean, if you don’t wanna talk that’s cool and I can leave, but I’m just sayin’ that tea and stabbing and friendly conversation can fix a surprising number of things.”

Molly didn’t answer. She kept poking at the ball of pink wool. Mabel sat quietly and drank her tea. Eventually, she sighed.

"C'mon," Mabel said. "What's got you down, Mollycoddles?"

Now there was a nickname. She would have bristled if anyone else called her that, but somehow Mabel managed to make it seem natural and friendly and not patronizing at all.

Molly paused, laying the needle down on the table. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't know how. She was ready to rebuff Mabel’s inquiries, to plaster on a smile and go through the day—go through every day—like she was fine.

But instead her mouth opened and she found herself saying, "Unicorns."

If her own response surprised her, it was nothing like what she felt when Mabel slammed the ball of wool she was winding onto the counter, rattling their mugs. "Listen,” she said. “I've met unicorns, and they're jerks, okay? Don't listen to them!"

Molly blinked. "Umm . . ."

You got used to the way that Mabel talked, after a while, the way she mixed real life and fairy stories and what must have been some extremely strange personal dreams up together like they were all just as real as each other. But she didn’t normally get this angry about them. Excited, sure, passionate and overly dramatic, constantly, but not angry.

Mabel was staring at her fixedly.

"What did they tell you? Not pure of heart? Listen, if you need me to, I will punch whatever lying hoofbag said that to you in the _face_. Believe me, I know how that scam works, and—"

“It’s . . . a metaphor,” said Molly. “I haven’t _actually_ talked to a unicorn.”

Mabel closed her mouth. “Oh. So then, _you’re_ worried that you aren’t pure of heart?”

Molly scoffed. “Try pure of body, but that too.”

Mabel's expression softened. "Look, believe me, they can't actually tell any of that stuff, and it's nonsense to begin with, so—"

"I know!" Mabel flinched, and Molly was glad there were no customers in the store to overhear her outburst. "I know it's nonsense, but I just . . . I hate it anyway! I hate growing up! I hate . . . you're supposed to get something out of getting older, but it feels like I just keep losing things."

Mabel kept wrapping the yarn, but she nodded slowly. "I know how that feels. I mean, not with that thing specifically, but . . . when I was little, I thought growing up was going to be the best thing ever. And then for a while I thought it was going to be the worst thing ever. And then I thought the world was going to end and I wouldn’t get a chance to . . . that was exciting. But as it turns out it's not just one thing, you know? It's a lot of things, and some of them are great and some of them suck and some of them are kind of both."

"It's just . . . " Molly worried at the roving in front of her. She wasn't actually felting it, just twisting bits around her fingers. "You always know that someday the unicorns are going to hate you. So you think . . . it has to be worth it, if you do a thing that’s gonna make them hate you, it has to be amazing and life-changing . . . or maybe most people don't. Maybe most people are sick of unicorns. But I wasn't. And it's not like anything bad happened, it's not like . . . part of me almost wishes that there was, that maybe if it wasn't my fault the unicorns would still like me. And it's stupid. I know—you know it's stupid, worrying about what imaginary horses think of your life choices."

"Molls," said Mabel, laying a hand on her shoulder. "You have no idea how much time I’ve spent agonizing about what imaginary horses think of my life choices. I did everything I could to make them like me. I did a thousand good deeds! I helped people; I donated blood until I passed out; I got the Electoral College disbanded—they overruled me later ‘cause they’re poopheads, but I did it. But none of it was enough. And none of it was ever gonna be enough, because the whole thing's rigged. And I found out it was rigged and we had a big fight and we got the hair and the treasure, yada yada, but . . . my point is. Even after I found out that she was lying . . . it hurt. Like, a whole bunch."

"I don't understand any of your metaphors, Mabel," said Molly, spinning the felting needle between her fingers.

Mabel shrugged. “Sorry. I guess maybe my life experience isn’t as widely relatable as I think it is.”

"It's just . . . I don't even think it was a bad choice, exactly,” Molly went on. “It's just not one you can take back. It happened, and now I'm the person who chose that, and I'm scared. I'm scared about so much. Life is short and I'm small and I'm turning into a grown-up and now . . . everything I have to decide feels so big. What if I get it wrong? What if I've already gotten it wrong?"

"You haven't," said Mabel. "And you won't. And if you do, you'll fix it! Easy-peasy."

"Ugh." Molly stabbed at her bundle of roving. "Easy for you to say. You always do everything right."

Mabel had a strange expression. "Talk to me when you’ve nearly been personally responsible for the destruction of all reality as we know it,” she said. “Nobody does everything right. I sure don’t. But I do . . . a lot of good things anyway, you know? That’s how unicorns mess you up. They make you think there’s only two ways to be: perfect and worthless. And you can’t be perfect, so that makes you the worst automatically. But, Molls, I’m not the worst and neither are you.”

“What if I become the worst?” Molly objected grumpily. “What if I do something wrong and then I can’t fix it and I’m sad and alone forever?”

Mabel grimaced and drew in a long breath through her teeth. “Heh. Well. As it turns out, it’s really hard to mess anything up _forever_ even if it feels like it. You just gotta talk to people about things and not be grumpy and stubborn until one of you gets your mind zapped into oblivion so you can save the world.”

Molly blinked. “You lost me.”

Mabel waved her hands. “Waitwaitwait! I think I’ve got a good metaphor this time! You know when you have a skein of really beautiful yarn and you just get paralyzed because there’s so many things that it could be, but you don’t know which of them to choose because once you start knitting it isn’t going to be any of the other things? It’s like that. It’s . . . we gotta get spun before we knit ourselves into anything, but spinning is easy. You worry about weight and tension and if you’re gonna be plied, but for the most part it’s just—you keep spinning. Sure, you might end up kind of bumpy, but have you seen what we charge people for some of this knobbly handspun stuff? You’re _artisan_! But knitting isn’t like that. Knitting has infinite possibilities! And that’s really scary. But . . . knitting something, even if it isn’t what you want, is better than just having all your yarn sitting around being fluffy forever. You know?”

“I guess . . .”

“And this is the thing. Maybe at first you think you want to be part of a hat—say, this fashionable cat-eared cowl with the angora edging. And maybe you do! Or maybe you change your mind—and you could do that right after the first row or after the whole thing’s done! You can get out either way; look!”

She’d been teasing the end of the yarn out as she talked, and then pulled triumphantly on it, the edge of the hat unravelling around her.

“Mabel,” Molly protested, “Don’t . . .”

Mabel flapped a hand at her. “It’s okay, I was getting bored of white. I’m gonna redo it with some sparkle! But here—” she gestured at the yarn that was piling up at her feet. “Sure, you might end up a little kinky—”

“Mabel!”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Mabel laughed. “My point is: maybe you used to be one thing. But you can still decide to be something else! Maybe next you wanna knit yourself into a single-color thing, like a fluffy neckwarmer!”

“Shouldn’t someone else be knitting me?” Molly asked. “I mean, if I’m the yarn . . .”

Mabel shook her head. “Nah, you’re magical sentient yarn; you knit yourself.” She froze and stared into space for a second. “Hang on. Just—hold that thought.” She grabbed one of the star-shaped Post-Its from the counter and scribbled something that looked like “Talk 2 C re: magical sentient yarn”. Then she spun back around and continued, “Anyhoo, you could be a neckwarmer. And you could stay a neckwarmer or you could unwind again and be . . . part of a sweater!”

“I was wondering why you hadn’t talked about sweaters yet.”

“Just waiting for their moment in the spotlight!”

Molly chuckled.

“So, eventually, you end up as part of this beautiful and glamorous sweater, and you’re very happy, and it doesn’t matter that you used to be a neckwarmer or a hat. Or, it matters, but it doesn’t stop you from being a really great sweater, you know? And hanging out with all your sweater friends. Having sweater parties. Being awesome. Because you’re a sweater.”

“Okay, okay, fine, I get it. Someday I’m destined to be a sweater.”

Mabel huffed. “Miss Molly. Have you been listening to me at all? You’re not _destined_ to be anything. That’s what’s really great . . . and really scary. You could be a whole bunch of things. Maybe you will be a whole bunch of things!”

Mabel spread her arms, encompassing the piles of yarn and half-finished projects around her. “And that’s life, Mollycoddles!” she said, grinning. Her silver star earrings twinkled as she winked.

“It’s a mess, is what it is!” Molly laughed.

Mabel shrugged and began gathering up the yarn from her feet. “I’m not arguing. But it’s a really cool mess!”

When all the yarn had been confined to Mabel’s bag, she turned to Molly and said, “I mean, I know just going all rah-rah doesn’t fix all that junk. Otherwise I would have fixed the whole world by now. Sometimes it doesn’t do anything, and sometimes you _think_ you fixed a thing but then people are jerks and they change it back like that Electoral College thing. But anyway, all I’m saying is I don’t expect you to not be scared. I’m scared, and I’m the giving you this whole pep talk. But, you know . . . be excited too?”

Molly nodded. “I’ll do my best. And, uh, thanks. For the tea. And the pep talk. And the offer to punch imaginary creatures for me.”

Mabel slung her bag over her shoulders and swathed the giant sea monster scarf around herself until all Molly could see of her was her grin, like some yarn-obsessed Cheshire cat. “You’re welcome! I’m serious about the offer, though. I know people; they know how to punch things and where the unicorns are. Hit me up.”

Molly helped her open the door and waddle through it. “Are you gonna be okay with that thing?”

“I’m gonna be awesome!” said Mabel, raising her arms victoriously above her head once she’d successfully escaped from the building. “And Molls, good luck with everything.”

Molly gave her a lopsided smile. “Thanks.”

“And drink more tea if you need it!” Mabel yelled over her shoulder as she made her slow, shuffling way down the block.

“I will!” Molly waved once before she shut the door.

The Yarn Bomb wasn’t usually busy on Tuesday evenings. Molly still felt weird and shaky, but it was safer behind the counter. She made herself a mug of rosehip tea. She browsed through a couple of their pattern books. She pulled out a skein of a variegated silk/mohair blend that had been sitting untouched in her cubby for months.

Then, with a deep breath, she began to cast on.


End file.
